Chapter 35. Son Liying
The car screeched to a halt outside the small studio space. Jason didn’t wait for the door to be opened—he shoved it aside and sprinted toward the entrance.
The shop door was already cracked open.
His chest tightened.
He pushed it the rest of the way, and the sound of creaking hinges barely registered against the storm of thoughts in his head.
Inside was chaos.
The clean, cozy studio space he remembered—the place full of soft fabrics, delicate sketches, and quiet pride—was completely torn apart. Tables overturned. Rolls of cloth unraveled. Tools scattered. Thread tangled across the floor like vines.
And in the center of it all, hunched in the wreckage like something broken, was Son Liying.
She sat on her knees, crying, shoulders trembling as she held a ruined piece of fabric in her hands. Her fingers clenched it so tightly the threads had wrinkled.
Jason didn’t speak.
He just ran to her and knelt down, pulling her gently into his arms. She didn’t fight it. Didn’t resist. Her body curled into his, sobs muffled against his chest.
He didn’t rush her. He let her cry. Five long minutes passed in silence, aside from the occasional hitch in her breath.
Eventually, the storm passed.